Emilie Emerson

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"Because all the monsters have been let out
of their cages tonight, no matter what court
they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn."
~ Sarah J. Maas; A Court of Thorns and Roses


xxxxxA successful New York Times author, Emilie Emerson has made a name for herself as a captivating mystery/thriller/horror writer. She credits fellow female writers Mary Shelley, Anne Fraiser, and Lauren Buekes as just a few of her inspirations both past and present


xxxxxThough it appears Emilie has lived a charmed life; a successful career, financial security, world traveler; this is all but a facade on the darker, more sinister truth.

xxxxxTo those who know, Emilie belongs to a group of people collectively known as Changelings, or the Lost. To say her particular durance was a nightmare, is an understatement. Her past is mired by shadows and her present thrives in darkness.

xxxxxShe keeps her personal life private but this hasn't kept her name out of tabloids, especially when taking a meal with a more famous acquaintance. Much of her allure comes from the fact that many have questioned where she gets her ideas for her stories and even some have suggested they aren't tales of fiction at all. Naturally, Emilie stays mum in the topic, but her disquieting grin is often misconstrued to allow such conspiracy theories to flourish and bloom.

xxxxxHer arrival to Fallcoast, Maine was premeditated after re-reading King's Misery. Currently working on her fourth novel, Emilie hopes to be inspired by the New England city.


xxxxxA woman of above-average height, Emilie commands an air of haughty elegance that is both intimidating and inspiring. She always has both feet planted firmly on the ground with a posture that is quite enviable. It could be assumed that at one point or another in her life, she might have been a dancer. Aside from the color of her hair which often changes naturally depending on the seasons, she maintains a neutral and classic aesthetic to the choice of clothes she wears. Make no mistake, they are all luxury brand designers, even her more casual wear is most likely to be cashmere instead of fleece.
xxxxxShe bears a striking countenance, open and welcoming to the passing stranger but her beauty comes with a sharp edge that could at times come across as uneasy. Is it the smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes or perhaps the way that smile twists at the end with the promise of dark secrets? No, that can't be it. But there is -something-. Either way, Emilie has a way of attracting others to her with a look or a story. She is slender but not willowy. Soft feminine curves are accentuated by her love of classic American fashion circa 1940. She bears high cheekbones that accentuate the almondine shape of her eyes and the sharp squared jawline that comes into a delicate point. Her nose is slightly long but fits the frame of her face and sits quite perfectly in the middle of her face between her eyes and her soft lips. A delightful little over bite is most endearing... or could be off putting.


xxxxxWords will go here soon.


Dot black.png Changeling: In good standing; Darkling of the Autumn Court.

Dot black.png Bibliophilia: She loves a good (scary) book. Do you?

Dot black.png Not From Around Here: She's new to Fallcoast.


WriterIcon.png NAME - Will say something here at some point.

WriterIcon.png NAME - Will say something here at some point.

WriterIcon.png NAME - Will say something here at some point.


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Released Titles




Seeming darkling.pngCourt autumn.png

Vital Stats

Full Name: Emilie Emerson
Appears As: Emilie
Birth Date: October 13, 1995 (Libra)
Apparent Age: 25
Occupation: Writer
Virtue: Patience
Vice: Gluttony
Sphere: Changeling
Court: Autumn
Seeming: Darkling
Kith: Leechfinger
Keeper: The Ten-Garden King
Entitlement: None yet.
Motley: None yet.

Notable Stats

Skills Of Note
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Hozier ~ Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene
I watch the work of my kin bold and boyful
Toying somewhere between love and abuse
Calling to join them the wretched and joyful
Shaking the wings of their terrible youths
Freshly disowned in some frozen devotion
No more alone or myself could I be
Lurched like a stray to the arms that were open
No shortage of sordid, no protest from me